Vortex

by Larry Bond

  Craig shrugged, unable at the moment to see any practical alternative to a prolonged slugging match through the mountains. And given that, the

  Allied expeditionary force needed fuel, ammo, artillery, and infantry replacements even more than it needed the 24this main battle tanks.

  Weber’s M-Is would only come into their own once his American and British troops broke out onto the flat, open grasslands of the veld.

  The sound of distant thunder-heavy artillery–echoed down the highway.

  Both officers turned and hurried into the command tent, their argument forgotten and unimportant in the face of yet another Afrikaner attack.

  DECEMBER 29-A COMPANY, 3RD BATTALION, THE PARACHUTE REGIMENT, EAST OF

  ROSETTA, SOUTH AFRICA

  Though the lateafternoon sun seemed to set the far-off slopes of the

  Drakensberg Mountains aflame, it left northern Natal’s narrow valleys and treelined hollows cloaked in growing shadow. Ten kilometers south of the

  Mooi River, real fires glowed orange in the gathering darkness. Soldiers wearing red berets and green, brown, and tan woodland-pattern camouflage uniforms clustered around the fires sipping scalding hot heavily sugared tea. Men born and reared in London’s crowded East End, the isolated West

  Country, the rusting, industrialized north, or southern England’s rich farmlands and suburbs stood chatting together-their mingled voices and different accents rising and failing beneath overhanging mo pane and acacia trees. After a hard day’s march north along National Route Three, 3 Para’s

  A Company was having a last “brew-up” before digging in for the night.

  The muted roar of diesel engines drifted up the road as convoys of overworked trucks ferried supplies inland from the Durban beachhead, now nearly ninety kilometers behind them. The Paras could also hear the muffled thump of mortar rounds landing somewhere back along the road, audible proof that some of their “follow-on” forces were again catching hell from stay-behind Boer commandos.

  Most paid little attention to the noise. A weeks’ worth of combat in the

  Drakensberg’s rugged foothills had taught them how to ignore the sound of gunfire not aimed in their direction.

  Maj. John Farwell, A Company’s tall, hook-nosed commander, moved from campfire to campfire collecting his officers and senior NCOs. His two signalers followed close behind, made easy to spot by the thin radio antennas rocking back and forth over their heads. Soldiers who saw them go past muttered uneasily to one another and began checking their weapons out of long habit. As a general rule, the major disliked formal meetings and avoided holding them whenever possible. So an orders group such as the one they saw forming probably meant action was imminent.

  The Paras’s instincts were on target. New information had generated new orders. The six hundred soldiers of 3 Para were being committed to a night attack.

  Five minutes later, Farwell had his platoon leaders and sergeants assembled in a small clearing by the side of the road. He looked up into a semicircle of fire-lit faces. Some of the men seemed surprisingly eager, almost elated by the prospect of a real “set-piece” battle.

  Others, more imaginative, wiser, or simply more experienced, looked grimly determined instead. All seemed horribly young to their thirty five-year-old company commander.

  He unfolded a map and spread it out in the light thrown by the campfire.

  “All right, chaps. Here’s the gist of what we’re up to….” He spoke rapidly and with more confidence than he felt, outlining the situation they faced and the broad plan of attack passed down from battalion HQ.

  Two hours before, elements of D Company, the parachute battalion’s special patrol unit, had contacted what appeared to be a company-sized

  Afrikaner infantry force digging in along the last ridgeline separating the Allies from the broad Mooi River valley. They showed no signs of being willing to withdraw without exacting a steep toll in lives and lost time. And by daylight their defenses might be strong enough to delay the expeditionary force’s advance for several hours-hours the Allies could not afford to lose.

  So the British paratroops were going to attack immediately, accepting the inherent risks and confusion of a night battle in order to strike before the Boers finished building their bunkers and fighting positions. To minimize the inevitable confusion, 3 Para’s battalion staff had laid out a simple and straightforward plan. After a brief artillery barrage,

  Farwell and his A Company would storm the ridge east of the highway. Its counterpart, B Company, would drive on the heights to the west at the same moment. The Support Company’s machinegun and Milan antitank missile teams would be positioned along the Start Line, ready to move up and “shoot in” both assaults. If all went well, they’d be able to crush the enemy blocking force and unbar the road for a faster advance in the morning.

  “And the colonel will hold C Company in reserve … here. ” Farwell’s finger pointed to a tiny stream shown meandering along the base of the enemy-held ridge.

  “That should allow those Charlie Company layabouts to reinforce either axis of the attack … if anybody needs their rather dubious help. “

  As he’d intended, this last comment prompted a few quick, nervous grins.

  A and C companies had a long-standing but friendly rivalry.

  Farwell sat back on his haunches and studied his subordinates.

  “Well, that’s it then, gentlemen. Are there any questions?”

  “Yes, sir.” The freckle-faced lieutenant commanding 2 Platoon leaned forward, his expression troubled.

  “Why not use D Company to make a flanking attack? I mean, going straight up that slope seems likely to be a bit sticky.”

  Farwell nodded. It was a good question, one that deserved a straight answer. He traced the tangle of gullies and ravines shown extending to either side of the highway below the ridge.

  “I’m afraid we simply don’t have time for such subtlety, Jack. It might take D Company hours to work its way into position through that mess.” He shook his head.

  “And who knows what the blasted Boers might have waiting for them when they got there?”

  The lieutenant nodded slowly, reluctantly conceding the point. No one else spoke up.

  Farwell let the silence drag on a few seconds longer and then climbed to his feet. The other men hurriedly followed suit.

  “Very well, gentlemen. You have your orders. You may brief your platoons at your leisure. ” He smiled broadly.

  “But make sure that happens to be sometime during the next five minutes. We’re moving up to the Start Line in ten, so don’t be late. Dismissed.”

  As the orders group broke up, Farwell moved among his officers and

  NCOs-shaking hands with one, clapping the shoulder of another. It seemed the least he could do. Privately, he didn’t expect many of these young men would be alive to see the next sunrise. And since he planned to lead the attack personally, he counted himself among the likely casualties.

  BLOCKING FORCE, NORTHERN NATAL COMMANDO

  BRIGADE, ON THE RIDGE SOUTH OF THE MOOI RIVER

  VALLEY

  The scraping and rustling noises made by men digging in rocky soil carried far in the blackness under the trees carpeting the ridge. Foxholes and bunkers were being Jug more by feel than by sight, and any necessary orders were passed along the chain of sweating, middle-aged soldiers in harsh, piercing whispers.

  One hundred meters east of the spot where the N3 Motor Route cut through the ridge, short, broad-shouldered Sgt. Gerrit Meer laid his shovel to one side and straightened his aching back. Ag, he thought disgustedly, this whole thing was blery stupid-the product of some foolish staff officer’s diseased mind.

  He didn’t object to fighting the Uitlanders, far from it. Meer came from the town of Mooirivier itself, and he didn’t want to see a horde of black-loving invaders swarming freely through his hometown streets. But he did object to being asked to commit suicide.

  And that was what his commanders
seemed to have planned. He’d spent six years fighting along the Republic’s borders before coming home to his family farm. So he knew enough about tactics to view the ridge as a potential death trap. The same trees that sheltered the commando from observation by enemy aircraft would provide cover for any attacker moving upslope. Even worse, with the open countryside of the Mooi River valley behind them, he and his comrades wouldn’t have anywhere safe to retreat to when the time came.

  As if that weren’t bad enough, the sergeant didn’t think there were enough men here to hold the ridge for long against a determined assault.

  It might have been different if the full

  commando had mustered, but more than half hadn’t even bothered to show up at the assembly point.

  Meer hawked once and spat. Traitorous rooinek swine. His English neighbors loathed the blacks as much as he did. He knew that for a fact. So what did they do the moment the going got tough? They ran away to save their own skins. He scowled. When this war was over, there would have to be a reckoning with such cowards.

  He picked up his shovel again and leaned into his work stabbing the broad, sharp blade into the ground with short, powerful strokes. After all, a good deep foxhole might just keep him alive long enough to kill some of his people’s enemies.

  A sudden, blindingly bright flash lit up the crest ahead and sent his shadow racing away downslope. The ground rocked. For an instant, Meer froze. Then he dove for cover.

  “Down! Everybody down!”

  More shells burst in the treetops-spraying jagged steel and wood splinters downward in a deadly rain. Some men dropped without a sound, killed instantly by blast or concussion. Others fell screaming, torn open and bleeding but alive.

  Through it all, Sgt. Gerrit Meer and other veterans like him lay huddled in their shallow holes, waiting impatiently for the enemy barrage to end.

  A COMPANY, 3 PARA

  Maj. John Farwell crouched beside his signaler, ten meters behind the shadowy, motionless shapes of 2 Platoon. All eyes were riveted on the dark mass of the ridge rising above them.

  Dozens of bright-white explosions flickered from east to west along the crest line, leaving in their wake a maelstrom of noise, smoke, and blast-thrown debris. Three full batteries of 155mm howitzers were pounding the Afrikaners-pouring salvo after salvo of HE onto defensive positions pinpointed by 3 Para’s patrols.

  Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the shell bursts stopped. Silence settled back over the night.

  Farwell checked his watch: 2315 hours. The barrage had lifted.

  He jumped to his feet, waving his men forward with one arm while the other clutched his Enfield L85AI assault rifle.

  “Let’s go, lads! Up and at them! Up and at them!”

  Platoon leaders and their sergeants were already repeating his orders.

  A Company’s whole line began to move ahead at a fast walk, separating into squads and sections as the men scrambled uphill.

  Farwell followed, scrabbling up a slope that seemed to grow steeper with every step. Darkness closed in as they entered the treeline. He couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen meters in any direction, but he could hear gasps, muffled swearing, and the sound of boots sliding and slipping on loose, rocky soil as his men fought their way toward the summit. Jesus, he thought, this bloody ridge is a damn sight higher than it looked on the map.

  With a hissing pop, a parachute flare soared into the night sky and burst high overhead-spilling an eerie, white light over the men struggling up the ridge. Oh, shit. The barrage hadn’t annihilated the Boers. They were still there and ready for battle. Farwell lengthened his stride. No point in loitering about.

  One after another, three small explosions rippled across the hillside behind the British paratroops. Mortars! Hell’s teeth. They were going to need more suppressive fire from their own artillery. Farwell angled over to his signaler and snatched the offered handset.

  “Red Rover One, this is Alpha Four The next Afrikaner mortar salvo fell squarely on target. One 60mm bomb landed barely five meters ahead of the British major and his radioman.

  Time and space, in fact everything, seemed to vanish in a single, searing blast of white fire and ear-shattering fury. Farwell felt himself being tossed backward like an unwanted rag doll. Conscious thought fluttered briefly and fled.

  He came to only seconds later, propped awkwardly against the trunk of a small, gnarled tree. Small, bloodstained tears in his battle dress and the pain stabbing through his right side told their own story-he’d taken a load of white-hot shrapnel across his ribs. His rifle was gone, ripped out of his hands and thrown somewhere out into the surrounding darkness.

  Farwell tried to stand up, failed at first, and looked down to see why.

  Christ. His signaler must have taken the full force of the explosion. The younger man’s mangled body lay across his legs, pinning him to the ground.

  He rolled the corpse to one side and staggered upright.

  More mortar bombs rained down on the slope-lighting up the tangled landscape in brief, deadly flashes. Dead and wounded Paras were scattered across the hillside in bloody heaps. Others, uninjured, lay prone behind fallen trees or half-buried boulders. Some were firing blindly, spraying bullets uphill toward the crest.

  Farwell swore violently. His attack was breaking down, losing its cohesion and force. He had to get his men moving again or they’d all die under the Afrikaner mortar barrage. Ignoring the pain in his right side, he hobbled onward.

  “Come on, A Company, on your feet! Close with the bastards! Close with them!”

  A man rose from behind a splintered tree trunk and grabbed at his left arm.

  “Are you all right, Major?”

  Farwell recognized 2 Platoon’s senior NCO and yelled back, “I’m fine,

  Sergeant!” He ducked as another mortar round landed close by. Fragments whined past.

  “Where’s Slater?”

  “Dead, sir.

  Unbidden, an image of the freckled lieutenant rose in Farwell’s mind, momentarily blotting out the present. He remembered meeting an aging and widowed mother who’d been so painfully proud of her handsome young soldier son. He blinked the memory away. There might be time for sorrow later. If he lived.

  He leaned close to the platoon sergeant’s ear.

  “We must get the men moving. You understand?”

  The other man nodded vigorously. The Paras either had to close with their enemies or admit defeat and fall back down the ridge.

  “Right. Then take your platoon forward, Sergeant.” Farwell bared his teeth, camouflaging a sudden blaze of pain as a fierce, tigerish grin.

  “Flush ‘em out, Bates. I’ll be right behind you with the rest of the lads. “

  The new commander of 2 Platoon nodded once more and moved away at a steady lope-briefly silhouetted by another explosion. His bull-voiced roar could be heard even over the noise of the barrage.

  “On your feet, you Terrible Twos! Come on! Let’s go kill those Boer bastards!”

  By ones and twos, British soldiers rose from cover and followed their sergeant up the slope. To the left and right, other voices rose above the shelling, echoing his call. One and Three platoons were rallying as well.

  Farwell knelt beside a dead Para, tugged the man’s assault rifle free, and hobbled after his men.

  BLOCKING FORCE, NORTHERN NATAL COMMANDO

  BRIGADE

  Twenty meters below the ridge’s jagged crest line, Sgt. Gerrit Meer lay flat on his stomach, sighting down the length of his R-I rifle. At any moment now, he thought grimly, the verdomde English will come swarming over the top. For a few seconds they’d be silhouetted against the skyline—easy to spot and easy to shoot. The sergeant’s finger tightened on his trigger. He and his men would. cut the rooineks to pieces.

  One of the wounded men they hadn’t had time to evacuate moaned softly behind him.

  “Shut up. ” Meer didn’t take his eyes off the top of the ridge.

  Another parachute flare
burst into life high above the battlefield, turning night into half-lit day.

  Something small and round flew through the air and thudded onto the ground beside his foxhole. It rolled on past and

  came to rest against a fallen tree. Meer’s heart stopped.

  “Grenade!”

  He buried his face in the dirt.

  Whummmphhh. A muted, dampened blast sent fragments whirring over his head. Other small explosions echoed from either side. Nothing more.

  The Afrikaner looked up into the gray and swirling mist created by a volley of British smoke grenades. He moistened lips that were suddenly dry, peering frantically toward a skyline that had all but disappeared in the manmade fog.

  Sounds were amplified by his inability to see anything clearly. Time slowed and finally seemed to stop entirely.

  Damn it, where were they? Meer could feel his heart pounding again, feeling as though it might break out of his body with every separate beat.

  There! Howling, yelling, defiant shapes raced out of the concealing smoke, lunging forward with fixed bayonets. He saw one man coming straight for him-all glittering eyes and a hate-filled, blackened face beneath a steel helmet.

  God. He shot and shot and shot again. The Englishman stumbled, folded in on himself, and fell facedown in the dirt.

  Meer’s panic vanished in that same instant. He laughed aloud in exultation and rose to his knees, swinging from side to side-looking for more foreigners to kill.

  Another small, round shape sailed out of the smoke and landed behind him.

  Whummp. The blast threw him forward against the lip of his foxhole and left him lying there for a split second, bleeding and dazed. Some instinct told him to stay down, to accept defeat.

  No! It would not be! Meer spat pieces of gravel and sand out of his torn mouth and pushed himself to his knees again. Vague shapes wavered in front of his watering eyes. He fumbled for his rifle.

  He never really saw the British paratrooper who came screaming out of the mist and swirling dust. He was conscious only of a sudden, sharp, tearing pain as the man’s bayonet slammed into his chest, reaching for his heart.